


The Gardener's Grandson: A Mystrade One-Shot

by MycroftianTimelady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1900s, Kissing, Loosely based on Maurice, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Young!Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 01:40:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10652322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MycroftianTimelady/pseuds/MycroftianTimelady
Summary: On a dewy Spring day in the early 1900s, young master of the Holmes mansion, Mycroft Holmes befriends the Grandson of the employed gardener, Gregory Lestrade.Six years later, Greg is tired of their social imbalance, and seeks something more than friendship from his superior companion...





	The Gardener's Grandson: A Mystrade One-Shot

13th April, 1920

"Mycroft, come over here my love - bring baby Sherl with you. Mrs Bates has prepared a lovely surprise for you both." Mycroft's mother called from across the garden.   
"Come on!"   
Eleven-year-old Mycroft considered the situation. He had been intently lecturing his younger brother on common garden flowers. Sherlock, a sweet three-year-old with curly, coal-black locks smiled toothily back at him, with curious awareness - his language was already fluid as a five year old's, and his capacity for knowledge was cavernous.   
"Mycroft, Mrs Bates has been working all morning for you two."   
With a shrug and an eye roll, Mycroft scooped up his brother and ran across the grass to meet his mother and Mrs Bates, the cook.   
It was a dewy, green morning, fresh with petrichor lingering in the air. A few early Spring flowers were beginning to bloom, painting the large Holmes garden with pink and yellow hues.   
Easter was a favourite holiday of Mycroft's - after all, who could not be pleased when free chocolate was given to you? The moral behind it always puzzled him, though, and the symbolism was biologically incorrect. Why on Earth should the resurrection of Christ be celebrated using an egg-laying rabbit? If perhaps there had not been chocolate involved, he might have thoroughly debated the concept, however that might have resulted in an argument and thus a chocolate ban. Chocolate was far too pleasant a thing to be gambled over.  
Mycroft met his mother at the foot of their maze, a maze which was much talked about amongst the surrounding village. It was said to be the most complex yet pleasing maze in the vicinity, with its eight-foot hedges and frequent clearings decorated by statues and fountains.  
"I've hidden fourteen Easter eggs within the maze. If you can find them all within half an hour, we'll have a cake at dinner!" Mrs Bates beamed. A rotund, kindly woman, Mrs Bates was somewhat of a miracle maker when it came to cakes, and Mycroft practically hero-worshipped her for it.   
As mother Holmes announced the beginning of the challenge, and set her watch, Mycroft suddenly caught sight of someone peering from behind a large oak. Someone dark-eyed and cautious, a cap of some sort clasped in his hand. The two boys' eyes met for barely a moment, before the observer leapt behind his tree again.  
"I can see you, you know." Mycroft called to the boy. He peeped out from behind for a moment.  
"Come on over." The boy ducked back behind the tree again and out of sight. Mycroft, confused and secretly a little hurt, strode up to the tree.  
"Please, don't be afraid. What is your name? Come on, come on out from behind there." Slowly, the boy side-stepped to face Mycroft, trembling a little with nerves.   
"Greg Lestrade, mister 'Olmes. I'm sorry ter interrupt your game, sir. I was just bored an'... You see, my Grandad's the gardn'r an' Mum sent me 'ere for the Spring. Might be longer if Mum don't get better. She's terrible sick." He said, awfully quickly. He knew as a servant he wasn't in his place to make acquaintance with the master.   
"I don't mind at all, Mr Lestrade... Would you... Like to join in our game? We have to find Easter eggs in the maze." Mycroft smiled shyly. It was incredibly rare for him to converse with children more or less his own age, and he found himself strangely nervous. It was difficult to tell how much older Greg was to himself, as he himself was peculiarly tall for his age.   
"If I could Sir, I'd love to." Greg grinned, a little less timidly.  
"Mycroft's my name. I don't mind you using it, Gregory."

 

April 23rd, 1926

"Gregory, if you could attend to the flowers, I'd be most grateful. I believe they are in desperate need of a water." Mycroft muttered from behind his book.   
"Yes sir." Greg replied, a touch of defiance to his tone. Mycroft continued to read, completely unaware of the man before him. Man he was too, practically. A strongly built man of twenty years, athletic and tanned from years of labouring in the gardens and kitchen of the Holmes manor. Six long years had already passed since their first meeting, and the pair had flourished from boyhood to manhood: Mycroft, devoted irrefutably to knowledge and Gregory to gardening and the trials of being a groundskeeper. Their friendship in the later years faltered somewhat, which could have been a result of their three year age gap. While Mycroft spent his evenings traipsing the grounds, reading or thinking, Greg would take the bus down to the nearest pub. And so, a childhood friendship was lost - almost lost, but something of their younger days still remained in a certain preference to address each other by their Christian names.   
Mycroft had been peacefully reading at a bench sheltered by a few willow trees, their long tassels flowing in the wind. Greg remained quite unmoved, leaning carelessly against the tree trunk.   
"Still here, Gregory?" Mycroft retorted, finally looking up to meet Greg's eyes which observed him beneath languidly heavy eyelids, crowned with thick, dark lashes.   
"Yeah. Still 'ere, Mr 'Olmes." His voice, rougher than usual, lingering on Mycroft's name. Mycroft laid down his book.   
"Gregory, you know you don't have to call me sir or Mr Holmes. We have been on first name basis since... Well, since we first met!" He stood up from the bench and straightened out his (perfectly tailored) tweed waistcoat.   
"Whatever's gotten into you?" He raised a sharp, red eyebrow and looked him up and down, noticing the way his tattered trousers clung to his long legs. Somehow he hadn't noticed Greg's body before...   
"I just... I don't wanna be your servant no more, Mycroft. What 'appened to them days when we was perfectly 'appy to, you know, spend time together? I need you, Mycroft. You see... I need you as much as-" He was silenced by a long, milk-white finger pressed up against his lips. Greg's eyes widened at his cool touch.  
"Shhhh." Mycroft whispered gently. His lips parted, head cocked to one side, studying the other man's face - his finger still at Greg's pink, chapped lips.   
"I st'll gun tlk, yuh nuh." Greg muttered against the redhead's silencing digit, nudging Mycroft's foot with his own, playfully.  
"Inside my waitcoat pocket."  
"Wht?"  
"Grab what's inside, would you?" Mycroft breathed. He hadn't been this close to anyone in... Forever and now, none other than Gregory Lestrade, the gardener's grandson was almost pressed entirely against him, his hand buried deep inside his pocket.  
"Wy m I duh-ng ths?" Greg asked, laughter lighting up his hazelnut-brown eyes.  
"So I don't have to remove my hand - I can't open the pocket with only one. Also, I don't recall giving you permission to speak? Don't look at what you've taken out, just close your eyes." Greg obediently closed his eyelids, his teeth grazing his lips subconsciously.   
"Muhcrft?"   
The red-head carefully peeled away the golden foil of a small, caramel chocolate with his thumb and forefinger.  
"You can open your mouth now." Mycroft removed his finger, and instead wrapped his hand around Greg's head and ran his bony fingers through his hair, causing him to gasp out in both shock and pleasure. His eyes fluttered open, blinking rapidly at the sudden change in the man before him.   
"Close your eyes, mister." Mycroft asked imperatively. With an impudent sigh, Greg obeyed, drawing his body nearer to the red-head.   
Mycroft took up the chocolate, and delicately prised open Greg's pouting lips, then slipped the thing inside them. With a surge of confidence, Mycroft thrust himself forward into a lascivious kiss. Warm and wet, draped in a lust that had always been there, even if they hadn't realised it themselves. Greg groaned softly, as Mycroft explored his mouth with his tongue, the sweet taste of the chocolate still lingering. The red-head's breathing became heavier as Greg fought for dominance, pulling Mycroft in from his lower back with his tanned hands made strong by his labour. Mycroft tugged at Greg's long, brown hair, still fighting his corner for power over the other, but it was no use.   
"I win, mister 'Olmes." He whispered to Mycroft, gently nipping at his ear with his teeth.   
Roughly he shoved Mycroft up against the Willow trunk, then lifted the red-head's legs up to brace around his own hips, leaving Mycroft completely at the will of the gardener's grandson.   
"Gregory..." He breathed. "Not here. We... Might be caught."  
"I couldn't give a damn what they'd say, Myc. I... I love you."   
"Gregory, you know I feel the same way but if my father- if anyone sees us, we shall both be imprisoned for gross indecency -"  
"- Then visit me tonight. Grandad is away this evening - we'll 'ave the place to ourselves." Greg's eyes swam with longing as his planted a tender kiss on Mycroft's cheek, brushing his curly red hair to the side.  
"Tonight at eight o'clock. You'll be there for me?"  
"An 'undred 'orses couldn't drag me from waitin' for you."  
"Nor I from meeting you. Until tonight, adieu."

Mycroft ascended the creaking, wooden stairs of the gardener's lodgings. The building was drenched in orange, flickering candle light, the smoke giving off a lurid purplish haze. It was similar to that of a dream as he climbed that ancient staircase, and Mycroft felt a horrible sinking sensation from the pit of his stomach - what if Gregory had been called upon to work? He smoothed a hand through his wavy, carrot-red hair. He's chosen a simple outfit: a loosely fitted, white shirt and tightly-fitted brown trousers.   
"Mycroft?" Greg's voice floated from above, and Mycroft breathed sigh of relief. He skipped the last couple of steps, then rounded the corner and into the bedroom.  
Inside, Greg lay outstretched on the bed, head propped up on one arm, the other lazily strewn to his side.   
"Mister Lestrade." He managed to say, before his passion took over and he advanced upon the beautiful man with a force like fire, incinerating his insides with its burning tongues. He slung his leg over the other man's waist, straddled atop of him, the fire still raging from within. 

 

Mycroft awoke the next morning embraced in the comfort of his lover's arms. A cold, Spring sun broke the curtains as Gregory too began to awake. Luxuriating in the touch of each other's bare skin, euphoric with the ghost-like memory of the night before, they awoke.

"Gregory... You are no longer my servant. In fact, you never have been, for I love you, and always have although I may not have seen it quite so clearly before. Would you do me the honour of being my clandestine lover?"

"Mr 'Olmes. Why ask a question when you already know the answer?." 

                                Fin

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed x


End file.
